


Power

by sapphosghost



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphosghost/pseuds/sapphosghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this prompt at the glee_kink_meme - Brittana - President Lopez - At work sex, desk, Britt tops<br/>Santana Lopez is elected President with Brittany as her First Lady. On any given day, President Lopez is the most powerful woman on the planet ... except when Britt bends her over her desk in the oval office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power

January 20, 2029  
  
Santana Lopez has never liked wearing a suit. Especially a skirt suit. But given the constraints of her position, wearing jeans to a summit meeting of the world leaders isn’t exactly the best form of diplomacy. So she wears a suit, with an American flag pinned neatly on her lapel. She does what she can to vary the colors and styles, but at the end of the day, it’s still a suit, and it still confining and ridiculous and she hates it.   
  
Her job, on the other hand, makes it worth it.   
  
Being the first gay President of the United States (and also the youngest President in history, but hey, who’s keeping track?) has had its drawbacks. There was that assassination attempt during the inauguration, but as soon as she calmed Brittany down, it had been easy enough to move past. When you’re dealing with the upcoming of the democratic elections in North Korea and the appointment of Emma Watson as the new Prime Minister of England, you have more on your mind than a bullet aimed at your head. Fangirls across the world are going to throw a  _fit_ , and Santana doesn’t have time to worry about that. It’s what the Secret Service is for.   
  
Brittany, though, would certainly say otherwise. She hates Santana’s job nearly as much as the fact that she’s been forced to give up her career in the New York City Ballet Company in order to politic alongside her wife, as any good First Lady should do. She takes her cues from Jackie O and Michelle Obama, dressing the part and putting on a smile for the cameras as she reads to public school children, hosts high tea for the other wives of high ranking politicians, and aides her wife in making those crucial decisions that shape the world they live in.   
  
Santana was sure that their marriage would be over when she decided to campaign. But it seemed that there was one thing Brittany liked about being the President’s Wife: bringing the most powerful woman in the world to her knees.   
  
Now, exactly one year after taking that vow on the White House lawn, she’s got a few minutes to relax (even if she’s in a suit) in the verifiable fortress that is the Oval Office. And she’s expecting a visitor. She hears the knock from the other side of the paneled wall, and she flips open a file on nuclear disarmament, trying to look busy.   
  
“Madam President,” a young secret service officer sticks his head into the room, adjusting his earpiece. “Your two o’clock is here.”  
  
“Send her in,” she replies without looking up. There’s a nervous flutter in her stomach and she swallows dryly. The agent leaves to collect the woman in question, and her hands begin to shake. She’s gone toe-to-toe with warlords and Generals of the greatest armies in the world, but this woman? Leaves her quaking in her ridiculously-priced stilettos.   
  
Santana can hear the heels clicking purposefully against the hundreds-year-old marble floors, and then the door opening. The woman gives a whispered order to her escort, and the door closes and locks behind her when she enters.   
  
“Madam President,” the woman acknowledges, a trace of disdain at the title mixing in with the heat she’s brought into the room with her. Santana thinks that maybe the temperature has gone up fifteen degrees, but she can’t be too sure.   
  
“You’re going to have to give me a second,” she deadpans, twirling a pen in her fingers as she skims the documents in front of her without really reading them. “I’m just so behind on all this work. You know. Making history, signing bills into laws, changing global policy.”  
  
“Hmm.” The hum is full of distaste and impatience. “But we had an appointment at two. It’s now… ten after. I’d say you’re being rather rude.”  
  
Santana has to hide her face so the grin there can’t be seen. Still, she hasn’t looked up. “Perhaps we could reschedule then, because as you can see, I’m a very busy wo-“  
  
Two hands slam, palms down, on the mahogany desk, and Santana takes her cue. She lifts her chin, slow and deliberate. When she connects with two sparkling blue eyes, she stops, smiles, and puts down her pen.  
  
“I made an appointment at two,” Brittany says, wetting her lips as she looks Santana up and down where she sits in her high-backed leather chair. “You’re going to keep that appointment, Madam President.”  
  
She’s still shaking. Nervous and excited, she can feel the heat flood two places: first, her cheeks; second, the juncture between her thighs. It blooms outward at both, and she has to take a deep breath to compose herself. She gulps, but the smile stays screwed in place. You don’t get to be the youngest President of the United States without a good poker face.   
  
“Is that so?” she teases, kicking her feet up and crossing her ankles on the desk. “Should I call the agents outside the door right now?”  
  
Brittany straightens and saunters idly around to Santana’s side of the desk, knocking her feet back to the floor in the process.   
  
“I think you’ll find that…  _unwise_ .”  
  
Santana cocks her eyebrow. “Oh?”  
  
Santana can’t help but shudder when Brittany bites her lower lip and bends, hands on the arm rests of her chair, leaning down so their faces are inches apart.   
  
“Yeah,” she confirms, eyes busy raking over Santana’s body, leering hungrily. “Because if you call them now, I won’t be so forgiving when you come crawling into my bed tonight.”  
  
Any semblance of dignity she has left is lost as she whimpers beneath Brittany’s scrutinizing gaze. Her wife smirks, satisfied, and runs her index finger along Santana’s jaw until her thumb and forefinger pinch Santana’s chin. She leans in, their cheeks grazing, and hisses into her ear.   
  
“Now get up.”  
  
Obedience is not an option. She gets to her feet, knees weak in anticipation. It’s been so long, and Brittany has been so patient. It’s been a year since she’d taken office, and they  _still_  haven’t joined the Mile High Club on Air Force One. The fact that they had to schedule an appointment for-  
  
Fingers snap in front of her face, redirecting her attention. Brittany stands two feet away, expectant and waiting. Santana blushes, ashamed. She should be better at this by now. Brittany twirls her index finger in a circle, and on command Santana turns on the balls of her feet. She’s being inspected, appraised.   
  
Brittany does love a good power suit.  
  
When Santana’s back is to her wife, firm hands clamp on her hips. She stops mid-twirl and lets Brittany’s fingers wander to the front of the coat, unbuttoning it and sliding it off her shoulders. It’s tossed aside, and she stays rooted in place as her perfectly pressed white shirt follows. Brittany lets out a snigger through her nose, taking in the red lace bra.   
  
“Someone dressed up for me today,” she hisses, her chin on Santana’s shoulder and her hands weaving around her waist tightly, pulling her spine back against Brittany’s stomach. “Like a good little whore.”  
  
Santana shudders at the touch, at the word, and dips her body further back into Brittany’s. She gives herself over, closing her eyes and nodding, her breath hitching as long fingers snake their way into the front of her skirt.   
  
“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” Brittany whispers, and Santana can hear the immense satisfaction in her voice. “You knew I was coming, got yourself all dressed up, and you’ve been at this desk stewing in it.”  
  
The thong that matches the lace bra is shifted aside, and Santana parts her legs to accommodate the hand that’s cupping her sex, but not quite touching her where she’s aching to be touched.   
  
“God, I can feel how wet you are already,” Brittany continues, the heel of her hand pressing against Santana’s mound, not stroking, just  _there_ . Santana whimpers again and rotates her hips, trying to get the hand to brush something – anything – that will make the torturous teasing end. Brittany tuts in her ear and uses the arm wrapped around her abdomen to hold the shorter woman still. “You’re so fucking wet for me. You’re the most powerful woman in the world, and I’m the one who makes your knees weak. Isn’t that right?”  
  
Santana has difficulty forming complete sentences, so she simply nods. Brittany knows exactly what to say to make her spine scurry from her body, terrified. And she’s right. Santana Lopez, the President of the United States, could so easily be brought down by a single chastising look from a tall blonde dancer. If Brittany told her to get on her knees in the middle of the State of the Union, she would probably do it.   
  
No, not probably. She would  _definitely_  do it.   
  
“I didn’t hear you,” Brittany prompts, the hand leaving her mound and causing Santana to groan. “When I ask you a question, you answer me. Understand?”  
  
Santana fumbles for Brittany’s wrist, grabbing it and pushing it back toward the waist of her skirt, but Brittany yanks away and instead wraps the hand lightly around Santana’s jaw, lifting it and exposing the tendons in her neck, taut in her anxiousness. Brittany presses her lips there and bites, and Santana’s hips buck against the air.   
  
“Yes,” she chokes out.   
  
“’Yes’ what?”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” she corrects, and this time when she guides Brittany’s hand back down the front of her skirt, Brittany doesn’t pull away. She seizes forward, hand groping blindly as she reaches deeper than before and runs a finger up Santana’s slit, bottom to top, and stops at the sensitive button that makes the woman go limp in her arms.   
  
“Good,” Brittany taunts, that single finger running circles around Santana’s clit while she twitches and tries so valiantly to stay standing. “But you still haven’t answered my question. You’re the most powerful woman in the world, but I’m the one who makes you weak. Makes you beg. Right?”  
  
“Y-Yes, ma’am.” Santana’s hips are pinned firmly against Brittany’s with the strong dancer’s arm, nails digging into her flesh as she tries to buck against the teasing hand.   
  
“So, if that’s the case, that makes me the most powerful woman in the world.”  
  
Her finger stops moving, waiting.   
  
“Say it,” she hisses, almost maliciously, into Santana’s ear.   
  
“Y-You’re the most powerful woman in the world,” she repeats, clinging to the arms that are the only things holding her up. “Please, baby. Please. I need you.”  
  
The hand leaves her once again and she clenches her thighs together as Brittany pushes her down. The hand at her waist holds her hips upright while the other presses down on her back, pinning her facedown on her own desk. Her fingers splay across the perfect lacquered finish and she can see the condensation of her breath against the surface, where her cheek is pressed to the wood.   
  
Despite the pressure on her back, holding her down, the kisses that trail up her spine starting at her lower back are delicate. Santana is grateful for the ability to let her weight sag into the desk, and even more grateful for the fingers that push her hair out of the way so Brittany can add kiss after kiss to her skin until she reaches the nape of her neck.   
  
“I’ll tell you what you need, you little slut,” Brittany murmurs, and even though the words are cruel, she’s tender. “You need to be fucked. Hard.”  
  
The hand on her back stays there, while the other begins to unzip the skirt around her waist. It falls to her ankles and she wants to kick it away, spread her legs and show Brittany just how much she needs her. But she also knows better than to move without being instructed. The thong follows shortly after, and Santana is left completely exposed, bent over her desk in the Oval Office.   
  
“What would the Vice President do if she could see you now?” Brittany is distracting her, keeping her attention off the way her hands are groping across her ass, finding her favorite spots, remembering each part of her so intimately. Her heated palm rests on Santana’s flank.   
  
“Quinn would have me impeached,” Santana answers, breathing heavily and barely able to see the pleased grin on Brittany’s face. The woman behind her lets out a sighing giggle, then raises her right hand and brings it down hard on Santana’s ass. She yelps, surprised, and bites her tongue before she can let a curse pass her lips. Brittany hates it when she curses.   
  
The hand comes down a second time, fast and sharp and immediate. The sting lingers, heightening her arousal. When a third blow lands, she presses her forehead to the desk and moans.   
  
Brittany allows her hand to rest on the burning red welt on Santana’s rear end. She runs her fingers over it, tracing the perfect outline before bending down to kiss it apologetically.   
  
“Tell me why you deserved that,” she says. Santana pants beneath her.   
  
“I tried to reschedule our appointment.”  
  
Brittany smiles, canting her hips into her wife’s prone form, grateful for the whine she gets in response. “And?”  
  
“And,” Santana continues, a little gasp escaping her as Brittany nudges the back of her knees, making them bend against the desk drawers. “And I talked back to you.”  
  
On silent command, Santana shifts her feet and the skirt and underwear are kicked away. Brittany uses her leg to push Santana’s apart. She can see the insides of her wife’s thighs glistening from the arousal leaking sordidly out of her body. She wants to attack, bury herself inside Santana and make the woman cum so hard that the members of the Senate can hear her screaming down at the capitol. But she knows this is about more than getting off. This is Santana’s release, and she won’t cheapen it by making it about what she wants, or even needs.   
  
“And?” she prompts one final time, swallowing back that urge to  _plunge_  and  _take_ . Right now she only wants to  _give_ .   
  
Santana is trembling against the desk, desperate and so close to broken and Brittany knows it’s almost time.   
  
“Because I belong to you,” she stammers, breath heavy and chest expanding and contracting rapidly. “And you have to remind me.”  
  
Up until this point, most of their actions are fueled by Santana. Her need to lose control when she is constantly looked to as the pillar of strength by the entire world. Brittany doesn’t get much out of the demeaning, or the slapping, but she does it because Santana needs it. And, she has to admit, seeing her vulnerable like this is rather hot.   
  
It’s not until Santana murmurs in that tortured whisper,  _I belong to you_ , that the heat blooms in Brittany’s stomach. She bites the inside of her lip to keep from groaning herself, to keep in character, and make sure that Santana gets what she needs from this. Her free hand reaches down to once again cup Santana’s sex, groping under and up so the heel of her hand is pressed to Santana’s swollen clit. She yelps and bucks back, hips working independent of the rest of her body. Brittany knows she should probably punish her for that, but she can’t tear her eyes away long enough to follow through.   
  
She slips her thumb down the length of her heat, from perineum to clit, languishing in the way Santana’s arousal dripped down the digit. Were she merciful, she could slide the thumb – and subsequently the rest of her fingers – into her wife and release the tension that is making Santana shake. But that isn’t what Santana wants. Santana wants to be taken. Physically, sure, but also emotionally, mentally, psychologically.   
  
Santana wants to be completely dominated, and Brittany is the only one who can.   
  
Instead, she continues to tease, the pad of her thumb running up and down but never full entering. Her index finger finds Santana’s clit and traces circles once again. Her wife trembles and groans, trying to thrust backward and force Brittany’s hand inside her. But the force on her back holds firm and Santana can do nothing but lie there, puddling.   
  
“How badly do you want me to fuck you?” Brittany bends shifting her arm away so she can use the weight of her upper body to pin Santana to the desk. The woman beneath her simpers pathetically, and Brittany shifts her heavy veil of dark hair aside so she can see Santana’s face.   
  
She’s crying, desperate and needy and completely broken. Brittany’s eyes go wide and she nearly pulls back, terrified that she’d gone too far.   
  
 _But she didn’t use the word…_  she tells herself, and when she cocks her head at Santana, the question goes unsaid between them. Santana shakes her head, no, she’s fine, keep going.   
  
“Please,” Santana moans through what Brittany can now assess to be the happiest tears Santana has ever cried in her life. “Please, I need you so bad. It aches. Please, just fuck me.  _Fuck me_ .”  
  
If there was ever a limit to which Brittany would push, she reaches it now. She presses the teasing thumb into Santana and listens as her wife screams, so desperately close to the edge. Her index and middle fingers press roughly on either side of her clit and pinch together, eliciting another piercing cry. She puts a firm, reassuring hand on Santana’s hip and bends so their bodies are pressed together, even though Brittany is still completely clothed against Santana’s nudity. She places delicate kisses on the back of her wife’s neck as her fingers work inside, thrusting again and again while Santana bucks.   
  
Ragged breaths fight their way from her exhausted lungs and she can barely keep her head up. Santana sucks at the air like a drowning man and prays for the sweet release of her orgasm. Behind her, Brittany readjusts, the two fingers that were once at her clit now plunging deep and curling inside, only to be pulled out and the motion repeated. She feels strong, rhythmic hips thrust against the hand inside her and the effect sends those curled fingers against that perfect spot inside, and all at once Santana falls.   
  
Brittany is right about one thing: she's sure that those stodgy old members of the Senate are turning down their hearing aids after the scream that leaves Santana’s throat. Her muscles clamp violently down on Brittany’s fingers and, to add emphasis to her already blissful state, Brittany grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls. Santana bends back, neck exposed, but a smile three feet wide curling across her lips.   
  
“Oh  _god_ …” She goes limp against the desk, Brittany’s hand still buried inside of her, and lets her eyes fall to slits. She pants, scarcely able to stay awake as the fingers are pulled slowly, painstakingly, from her body. Equally out of breath, Brittany plops into the massive leather chair behind them and pulls Santana into her lap. The spent woman rests her sweaty forehead on her wife’s shoulder, whimpering. Brittany takes the hint and brings her soaked hand to Santana’s lips. She sucks Brittany’s fingers clean then entwines their hands.   
  
“How do you feel, Madam President?” Brittany asks, softly, and now back to the woman she enjoys being most – a doting wife.  
  
Santana presses a weak kiss to Brittany’s neck and curls herself into a ball in her lap, letting Brittany envelope her in her arms.   
  
“Like the most powerful woman in the world.”


End file.
